The Further Misfortune of our Beloved Jacky Faber
by Marinera K
Summary: Adrift in the Atlantic in naught but a lifeboat, Jacky Faber's luck, or lack thereof, once again shines true, when the cap'n of the cursed Flying Dutchman offers her passage to Boston. Bloody Jack & DMC crossover, only pairing be fiercely Jacky&Jaimy.
1. Through the Mist

**Notes to the reader: (updated Nov. 2007!)  
**--All right, mates. Finally, an update! Letting you know of some changes that'll be happening… first, I'm going through and updating the story as I go, making it more nautically correct (now that I've actually _crewed_ a ship and have some semblance of knowledge how they work), as well as deleting these pesky A/Ns. Everything that you guys need to know, hopefully, will be addressed here or written in replies to reviews…

--I do actually have a life outside of the internet… and it does in fact require most of my time and energy just to keep it on the healthier side of insane. Please don't shoot me if I can't update every week or seomthing. --''''  
--If you haven't read the Bloody Jack series (by L.A. Meyer) … do it! They're amazing books! But I think you can still read this story and have it make sense, anyway…  
--This story takes place just after _Under the Jolly Roger_ (book 3), where Jacky Faber "escaped" from her captivity and certain execution for piracy (or privateering under a revoked Letter of Marque), and is now sailing for Boston in naught but a lifeboat.  
--Yes, I know there are two more books out. I started writing this one before the fourth came out. So there, it shows how old this 'fic truly is.  
--And considering that this is my first story involving Jacky or any POTC characters, please don't sue me or anything if you don't like how I've portrayed them! While you're at it, don't sue me for copyright infringement either, since I do not own Jacky or the POTC characters…  
--One more note. _UTJR_ ends in the year 1805. You're beginning to see the trouble here, aren't you? That takes place at least a hundred years after POTC. So for sake of argument, or more like for sake of plot, I'm going to rewind Jacky back to the days when Sparrow roamed the waters… More specifically, _two years before the main plot of COTBP._  
(that last part was in italics because I've gotten a lot of questions about it)  
--There will be characters from other tales that get cameos in here. For example, a minor charrie from _In the Belly of the Bloodhound_, and another pirate from a classic work of fiction by Robert Stevenson. I claim no rights to them. I do own a few charries in here, however, you'll probably recognize them because you've never heard of them before... XD  
--**Many thanks to:** LA Meyer (for introducing us all to the Wonderful World of Jacky!), Kyogi Ruka (for being my ever-so-critical editor), all of my fabulous reviewers (every one of you rock my world!), and KTTC forums (because they provide me with much entertainment, debate, and friendship, and if naught for them I would've never known of my true love, the _Lady Washington_)

…and many thanks to **you** for reading all that. If you so desire, read on, my friend!

* * *

_**The Further Misfortune of our Beloved Jacky Faber**_

**Prologue, aka the Third-Person Preamble**

Beyond the place where sight and thought coincide, beyond the realm of sane visions, in that world of broken images and distorted views, of smoke and lies and mist… there begins this tale. You may have heard of such a place, where fog and mist cover all and the sensation we call sight is naught but a glimpse of what _might_ be. Many times such ghastly vapors in the air are associated with bogs and swamps, or perhaps even sacred lagoons, but nay, none of these land-based locations is where our story begins. This tale is that of a pirate, and thus, it is set in the middle of the bloody Atlantic itself.

Alas, said pirate is not one of the gentlemen of fortune that I am quite sure you know and love - Jack Sparrow, Hector Barbossa, Joshamee Gibbs, William Turner, or other such characters. In fact, the term _gentleman_ of fortune would not even be the proper name for our hero, seeing as she is a young woman! For, as you probably know by now, but I am still required to say, this tale revolves around one infamous pirate by the name of Jacky Faber.

And somewhere out there, in that twisted realm of mist, with naught but a lifeboat to protect her from the Locker down below… Jacky was growing desperate.

Not only did she probably have an entire fleet of the British Navy chasing after her (how could she not, with a reward of two hundred-fifty pounds on her head?), but she had gone for at least a week without food, and based off her dire thirst (rather than keeping track of time), Jacky figured that she hadn't tasted water in over two days.

It had been yesterday morn when Jacky entered this bloody mist. At first she had tried to paddle around it, but it seemed to follow her. No matter how north or south she paddled, it always remained just to her west – between her and America. Seeing as she had no compass, and was thus forced to use the sun or stars to tell direction by, she was at first quite apprehensive about entering just a ghastly field of vapor. Yet, in the end, her rumbling hunger got the better of her, and she pushed westwards, into the mist.

Now, here she was. Jacky Faber, captain of the late _Emerald_, was lost, starving, and dying of thirst on that very sea that had formed her career, her passion, her life.

**Chapter 1: Through the Mist**  
_**November 1**_

_A day an' a half I've been rowing in this bloody mist._  
_Three days since I've tasted water.  
Nine days since I've eaten. (Heh, if you could call biting a few pieces of hardtack "eating".)  
Eleven days since I've seen Jaimy.  
God knows how many days until I reach land._

I clench my teeth, leaning forward and gripping the paddles tighter. I can't afford to think like that. Not here. Not now.

_Just focus on the task at hand, Jacky_, that's what I tell myself. _Stop your whining and focus on rowing. Forget those blasted sores on your hands! Pain won't conquer Bloody Jack! …but, God, it's getting harder and harder as the days go on. I can't keep doing this forever!_

I feel the panic arising in me again, and take a few deep breaths to calm myself. I was not finished yet. This mist could not go on forever. Sometime, I had to break out of this God-forsaken strip of water. All I had to do was keep rowing…

…_yeah right._

When I had started out from the _Wolverine_ eleven days ago, it had seemed like everything might actually work out. After being accused of piracy, captured by the Royal Navy and sentenced to hang by the neck… I was free, at least for the time being, and I was finally square with my beloved Jaimy. I had a lifeboat, too, which was most certainly better than nothing. I thought I would simply flag down a merchant ship and catch a ride to Boston, but no. I found out once again that I was foolishly wrong. I've been at sea for eleven days, and I haven't seen one bloody ship. Then this fog came, and it's gotten so hard not to give up the small remnant of hope that I once had.

At this point, I'd be glad to be found by _any _ship… so long as it's not one of His Majesty's, that is.

I pause my rowing and pull the paddles in, allowing myself a short rest. I can't help but think how much easier this would be if only I had a little wind… But no, the air's been still for several days, forcing me to use paddles to go anywhere. Right now the sail is folded up, just in case a hint of a wind comes back, but I'm already beyond the point of hoping for something as fortunate as that.

I glance upwards. Thick greyish smoke swirls above me, just the same as always, blocking the sky from view. It has been light for several hours, so I guess that I'm approaching noontime. With the hottest part of the day coming on, I know that I'll only dehydrate myself further by pressing on.

_Maybe if I just lay down for a while, things will be easier when I wake up… A little sleep won't hurt, now would it?_

I'm actually starting to take these thoughts seriously. I take my head in my blistered hands and let out a suppressed groan. I know that if I let myself sleep now, who knows where the sea will have swept me by the time I awake? Yet my eyelids are drooping, my throat is parched and cracking, and my stomach is complaining louder than it has since my orphan days in Cheapside… It _would_ be good to forget my troubles for just a few hours. I close my eyes, my head starts to fall…

_No! Jacky, damn you, stay awake!_

I snap my head up, and determine to do something – _anything_ – to keep myself from nodding off. I stare off the larboard side of my boat, searching for something, God knows what, but _something_ out there. I can't be alone on this sea, with naught but water below me, can I? My eyes sweep past the prow of the boat, and then over to the starboard side. A shadow passes by. I glance behind me, past the stern, then back to larboard.

_A shadow?_

My mind finally registers what my eyes caught a glimpse of. I whip my head over to starboard, anxiously peering out. There it is again, a dark form of some sort, nearing at an approximate twenty-degree angle. I instantly put my oars back in the sea and steer around so that I'm running parallel to this… thing. I paddle as fast as I can, as hard as I can, nearly hyperventilating, when suddenly, a bit of luck shines true. The mist clears, just a little bit, but enough to see a ship approaching me. I let out a joyful whoop (more like a wheezing croak, considering my condition, but it's the thought that counts), and hurry to raise my sails.

_A ship! At last!_

The ship approaches nearer, and I stand up, waving an oar in the air and hollering to the best of my ability. Not exactly the wisest course of action, I know, I know. I could capsize, or the ship could very possibly not see me and merely run me over… or many other unfortunate things could occur, but I shall not think about them right now. All I care about is the hope of being picked up out of this bloody mist! _Hmmm_, perhaps my luck is finally changing for the good, because the mist clears away just enough so I can see the hull of the ship. It looks old, worn… but sturdy enough. And, glory, she's real all right! Not some trick of the smoke or my imagination, and that's good enough for me.

I sit down in my lifeboat and start rowing again, imagining all the sorts of things that might await me… water, plenty of food (even maggot-infested tack sounds nice at this point), a bunk or even a spot between two of the guns where I might sleep, some fresh water, a ride to Boston, and glorious water! I think I might drink a whole barrel if I don't contain myself.

I let out a crazed laugh, just from the relief of it all. As if in a perfectly timed response, the mist clears a bit more, and I make out a man standing near the bow of the ship. He apparently sees me, too, as he gives me a slight wave, then calls to his crewmates. Three more men join him on the prow, then one more, a burly fellow with a strange-looking hat, pushes his way to the bow. I hail him, and he gives me a signal in return, instructing me to pull up along the starboard side of the ship. I signal my understanding, and then get back to work with my oars.

_Let's see, a few strokes this way, turn a little bit, edge a little closer… one, two, one, two, one, two, there you go, Jacky! You've got it now. Turn a little bit that way… and nearly there… got it!_

A line falls down from over the rail, and I hastily secure it to my lifeboat. The Jacob's ladder comes tumbling down slightly afterwards. I make sure the sails are securely tied down and double-check the line attaching to my boat, and then I grab my trusty sea-bag from the cabin and scamper up the ladder, eager to be on a ship again. Make no mistake, my little lifeboat has proven sure and faithful to me these past eleven days, and I'm grateful to her for that. But then I remember the feeling of the roll of the waves under my feet, the wind sighing as it passed through the rigging above me, and the deep groan of the boards around me… and I smile to myself, imagining life on a ship once again.


	2. The Sea Monsters

**Chapter Two: The Sea-Monsters  
****_November 1, continued_  
**  
I reach the deck of the ship and swing myself aboard with practiced ease. I glance up, eager to see the face of my saviors. What I see causes my joints to freeze, causes my mouth to drop open in shock.

_What the-?!_

I do manage stop myself before I let loose a string of expletives involving blood and damnation and hell. But still, you can forgive this first impulse, can't you? After all, I'm flat-out shocked. I can't believe this is real. No, these sailors are not British officers. They are most certainly _not_ from the Royal Navy. But frankly, I'm not sure they're much better than that.

The eight-or-so sailors that are gathered nearby me are… something out of my worst nightmares. (And believe me, I've had quite a few.) They all look like some kind of sea monster. Some have faces that resemble fish, others have extra arms and legs, some have tentacles, others are covered in seaweed or barnacles. I manage to force my mouth closed, and though I feel slightly light-headed I stay firm on my feet.

One of the crewmen hobbles forward. He is short and stocky, with a grey, somewhat human-looking face. His left eye is slanted, as if it either has swollen shut or is nearly at that point. The most startling of all is the hammer-head shark's head protruding from his skull. I study him for a few moments, and then suddenly realize that he's one I had thought was wearing a strange hat.

The sharkhead looks me up and down and sneers, revealing his bloodied, fang-like teeth. "Ye seem a bit far from shore to be paddling around in that lifeboat, missie. Who are ye, and what brings ye to these waters?"

At the first sound of his demeaning tone, I snap on the Look, one of the more useful things Mistress Primm has taught me over the years. I try my best to cover my shock and use a dignified voice as I answer him. "The name's Lieutenant Jack Faber. My ship got wrecked in a battle off Trafalgar and I'm currently seeking passage to Boston Harbor. I was hoping your crew would be willing to give me a ride that far, and if not, at least point me in the right direction."

I hear few muted chuckles from the other crewmen, but a glare from me shuts them up. I glance back at Sharkhead and harden my face defiantly. "Now, sir, seeing as I've answered your questions, I believe you should return the favor. Who are you, what ship is this, and can you grant me passage to America?"

Sharkhead bows mockingly. "First Mate, Maccus, at yer service, miss. This ship… she bares no name that needs be known by ye. Just know that her colors are none too friendly with the law," he says, a pointy-toothed smirk plastered on his face. "As for yer third request, I believe ye'll have to ask the Cap'n… though I'm sure he'd be honored to have yer presence aboard our humble vessel."

I smile and choose to ignore his obvious disdain. I'm actually quite used to being treated with disrespect, being female and all. It's the _nameless_ part of this ship that has me worrying a bit, but I figure I can find that much out from the Captain, hopefully. "Why thank you, sir. May I speak to the Captain then?"

This causes an eruption of throaty laughter from among the crew. Even Maccus is chuckling, as if this is all a cruel joke and no one has yet informed me. I stand my ground and hold my head high. "Sir, may I speak to your Captain?"

Maccus flashes me a sly grin, a sadistic gleam in his good eye. My stomach flips over and tightens at the sight.

"If ye have the fortitude to hold a decent conversation with him, then aye, Faber," he says. "But I warn ye, Jones has no pity for pathetic waifs such as yerself."

_Pathetic waif?! Ah, I've been called many things in my day, Sharkhead, but that's a new one! _I have to take in a deep breath to keep from

_Jacky, calm down. That attitude won't get you anywhere, you know that… _I take a deep breath. I will not snap. I really will not. I clench my jaw instead, ruining the effect of the Look. I know this would make Mistress Pimm very irate if she were here to see it, but alas, she is not… only one certain first mate whom I would _love_ to have a few good knocks at…

"I have the fortitude, mister Maccus," I growl through clenched teeth.

"We'll see about that," the sharkhead glances over to one the crewmen. "Crash, watch 'er."

"Aye," one of the sea-monsters, presumably named Crash, steps towards me. His right eye has all sorts of disgusting tendrils coming out of it, and his right leg is made up of a bunches of tentacles. I grit my teeth and glance away in order to avoid tasting bile or worse, _fainting_, in front of the crew.

Maccus pushes his way through the crewmen, for by now a small gathering has formed to see the commotion. He snarls at them. "And the rest of ye… back to work, now! Or I'll send the Bos'un after ye!"

This instantly causes the crew to scatter to their various posts. Maccus stalks off towards the aft cabin, leaving myself and Crash by the starboard rail. At first I look around the ship, trying to mind my own business. But then, slowly, as I wait… the stench hits me. I glance over at my temporary guardian. I've been around plenty of sweaty sailors and pirates, but good Lord, this Crash fellow _smells_! And it's not the usual smell of sweat and dried salt, neither. He reeks like… _fish guts?!_ I've got to do something to keep my mind occupied, or I'm going to snap.

_Patience, Jacky. You've just been at sea too long. Your nose'll get used to it. Just whatever you do, __**don't throw up.**_

I force a smile, though it probably turns out more like a grimace, and try starting a conversation in order to distract my poor sniffer.

"Hey," I offer, "so your name's Crash? Well met."

Crash growls and draws a sword that looks it's made of like sawfish bones.

I pretend to examine my boots. "Or, never mind then."

Crash laughs, a sound I'm starting to get sick of on this ship. "I am not the one you should be afraid of," says his gravelly voice.

I glance up sharply and pull on the Look. "I'm not afraid of you – or anyone else, for that matter."

More laughter. "Yet."

_Why is this entire bloody crew acting like they know a joke I don't?!_

No matter how long that question runs through my mind, I know I cannot say it. It seems that Crash isn't much of the conversational type, so I just stand there and wait. I try to ignore him, ignore the gut-wrenching smell… ignore the sinking feeling that maybe this ship wasn't my Holy Savior after all.


	3. Bleeding Hands

**Chapter Three: Bleeding Hands  
**_**November 1, continued (again)**_

Nearly half an hour has passed. I'm still standing my the starboard rail, still inhaling the not-so-wondrous fumes of my friend Crash here, still waiting for that Maccus to come back so I can speak with the Captain and get this whole situation worked out.

For the most part, the crew seems to work extremely hard. The Bos'un keeps a watchful eye on them and is not hesitant to throw a hard knock at the head of any seeming slackers. As far as I've seen in the last bit, there aren't any ship's boys aboard. I've spotted a few apparently ordinary crewmembers here and there, but most seem to be able seamen, despite their disgusting appearances.

Another thing I find odd about the ship is how much it is covered in barnacles and sea-slime. Even the railings aren't safe from these things – I found this out the hard way by leaning over the starboard rail to check on my lifeboat when old Crash-face wasn't looking. Even now, I'm leaning my hands against the barnacle-swamped railing, just to get the feel of a ship back in my bones. No matter how odd this supposedly nameless vessel may be, it's still got a prow and stern, starboard and larboard, rail and scupper, cabin and poopdeck. To me, it almost seems like home.

Almost.

And speaking of one's home, you'd think one would feel pride in the cleanliness of their ship, seeing as you live and work on it and all. But these sea-monsters don't seem to give a fat lot about it. Either that, or they like it all barnacled, seeing as so many of them are as well.

A sudden _thunk_ snaps me out of my thoughts. I jump up, pushing myself off the railing – and a sharp pain rips through my hands. I quickly look down at them in surprise. The blisters and sores are torn open, now glistening with puss and pooling blood.

_Damn!_

Apparently when I'd jumped up, I had scraped my hands open on the barnacles. Now all that rowing is finally coming back to haunt me. Instead of just a few scrapes on the palms, my shredded blisters are _gushing_. I grit my teeth in anger. I did not need this. No, not in the least.

_Thunk._

That noise again! What was it? I scan my eyes over the deck, but I don't see anything different. I glance over at Crash. Instead of leaning about and looking half bored to death, he is not standing smartly at attention, sword in salute, as if expecting someone important. Someone important such as the Captain, perhaps.

_Thunk._

I figure I had better look good, too.

I pull on the Look and stand chin up, shoulders square, hands tucked behind my back (for obvious reasons). A slight wind picks up, swirling some of my loose hair across my face, but I refuse the temptation to push it out of my sight. I really don't need to look all bloodied up in front of _(now who did Maccus say it was? Captain… Jones! -- yes, that was it!)_ Jones. And I really don't think I could handle being called "Bloody Jack" right now.

_Thunk._

My hands are starting to throb. I ignore them. Okay, maybe I don't fully ignore them, but I try to.

_Thunk_.

Now I see someone coming up from the aft cabin. Or… never mind, two someones. The first is Maccus. What a pleasure to see his face again. The second is…

_What the—__**that's**__ the Captain?!_

Oh good Lord, if I thought these other crewmen were sea-monsters, I don't want to know what the Captain is!

He has a beard made of _octopus tentacles._ One of his hands, the one that's facing me, the left one – it's not even a hand. It's a bloody _claw_. And his left leg is a crab's leg, not too different from the peg leg I've seen on a few sailors here and there. As the Captain makes his way across the deck, I realize his crab's leg is what is making that _thunk_-ing noise. (Terribly bright, aren't I? Yes, I always knew it myself.)

_Thunk._

Speaking of that noise, there it is now.

As the Captain gets closer, and I can see a siphon mixed in with the tentacles on his face. _Hmm_, I wonder if he actually _breathes_ through that tube! I must be suffering from heat exhaustion or some other such ailment, because I actually laugh at my own joke. Of course, a glare from Crash smothers this laugh, quite quickly I must say. I put on the Look again, this time pretending it was Mistress Pimm, and not some Captain of deranged appearance, ever-so-ominously approaching me.

_Thunk._

The Captain walks up to me and looks me up and down, a glint of malice in his eye. I stand smartly at attention, not too differently from how my officers taught me to back on the _Dolphin_ some years ago.

_No, Jacky. Don't think about those things. Focus. You let Maccus get the better of you last time; you shan't let that happen again._

Finally, the Captain speaks. "Me first mate tells me that ye be wantin' a ride to Boston. That correct, missie?" He has a thick Scottish accent, but I've dealt with enough o' those rogues to understand what he's saying.

"That is correct, sir." I say it with such poise that even dear Higgins would be proud of me.

"And do ye know who it is you're asking passage from?" The Captain eyes me as if I were some sort of lunatic. The sinking feeling in my stomach returns, but I hastily push it away.

_It's now or never. _"Perhaps if I knew the name of your fine ship, Sir, it would help me answer that question."

The Captain's eyes narrow into a blood-freezing sight, tentacles writhing in some kind of suppressed anger. _Oh, Lord._ And all I did was ask for the name of his ship… I certainly am beginning to hope against my treacherous luck that this wasn't a mistake, after all.

"And who says that my ship has a name to be given?" The Captain asks, a harsh tone in his voice. He definitely seems to be wanting to dominate this conversation, not a very good thing for me at all. "Besides, I don't believe ye answered the question, miss. Do ye or do ye not know who it is you're askin'?"

"I assume you, sir." _There you go, Jack-o! Way to keep your voice steady._

Captain Jones's eyes pierce mine. I have to admit, while I have met several nerve-wracking, disturbing, and overall sick Captains in my day… _This Jones surpasses them all!_ The worst part is that I can't even tell what it is that's troubling me. The closest I can figure out is that if my gut feeling is right, and the crew _is_ playing some cruel joke on me… the Captain is in on the joke. Not a very comforting thought.

Jones nods, a devious smile lighting up his face. "Aye, ye got that part right, missie. But did ye happen to say what your name was, now? …"

I try to hold his gaze. "Lieutenant Jack Faber."

The Captain's eyebrows (or where his eyebrows would be if he had any) are raised. "I don't see yer ship, _Lieutenant._"

"… It's the _Emerald_, sir. I was acting captain." I glance away. I don't want the Captain to see that I'm choking up just thinking of my jewel. "She's in the Locker. Blown away off the coast of Trafalgar."

Do you know what Jones does to that? He _laughs_. I wish I were jesting about this, but I am not. Captain Jones is laughing at me as I tell him about my _Emerald_. I start shaking in rage. Insult me, laugh at me, call me a bloody waif… but _don't_ _laugh_ _at_ _my_ _ship!_

I clamp my mouth shut to keep myself from spitting in the Captain's eye. That would have bought me some credibility, I'm sure.

"Ye've come a long way in that lifeboat, Faber," Jones says. "I wonder, could ye maybe paddle just a wee bit more, perhaps find yer way to Boston by yerself?"

"I'm out of food. Out of water. I've been paddling for eleven bloody days. I've been caught in this blasted fog for the last three of them." I know I sound impudent, but I don't care. I'm getting far too impatient with this Jones. "With all due respect, sir - will you, or will you not, take me to Boston?"

Jones squints at me, as if sizing me up. He hesitates for a moment. "… I wonder, Faber. If I take ye aboard this ship, would ye pull yer own weight in return? Would ye work as a full member of the crew until we deliver ye to Boston Harbor?" He tilts his head and cocks an "eyebrow" meaningfully.

I glance down at my blood-stained, grime-stained, tattered trousers and overshirt. I think of the severe conditions I've sailed in, the torturous work I've done, over the years. I let out a short laugh. What does this Jones thing I am, a freeloader? I hold my chin high and look Captain Jones straight in his putrid eye.

"I could do that, sir."

The Captain holds out his right hand. I notice for the first time that his index finger is a long tentacle, nearly dripping slime. My stomach wrenches at the disgusting sight, but I think I do a reasonable job of keeping the sickened look out of my face.

"Shake on it," Jones tells me.

I instantly think of my torn, bleeding hands, ravaged by the ship's barnacles. _No doubt I'm dripping blood into the scuppers by now._ I look at the slime on Jones's hand apprehensively. The last thing I want to do is shake it. I glance up at the Captain's face skeptically, as if silently asking if he's serious. From the grave look he gives me, I'd say he is.

Slowly, I take my right hand from behind my back. I reach out, and in the most disgusting moment of my life… I grasp Captain Jones's hand. Blood and puss mixes with sea-slime and ooze. I close my eyes and clench my teeth to keep from screaming out in pain. Jones's tentacle wraps around my arm, forcing me to close my hand firmly, making my hand sear with burning pain.

Then, to my utter relief, he lets go. I pull my hand back, blinking back tears. I will not cry in front of this sea-monster. I will _not._

Jones turns to Crash. "Have some o' the crew haul her boat aboard. Lash it to the deck." He then glances at me. "We have no extra bunks for ye, Faber. Ye'll be sleepin' in your own cabin, or own yer own wooden planks if need be." I nod in understanding. I'd much rather have it that way, rather than sharing the foc'sle or hold with one of _these_ crewmen.

Jones turns to Maccus. "Get her to work," he snarls impatiently. With that, he begins to stomp off back to his cabin.

"Wait! Captain!" I croak out. Jones glances back at me. "I've gone _three days_ without water! Can't I have a drink, just a cup?" I'm practically pleading now. _So much for not letting him get the better of you._

The Captain scowls. "I should say not. Ye'll wait til midday for yer water, like the rest o' my crew!" He spits at me, "This ain't no charity dump!" Jones throws a meaningful glance towards Maccus, who unfortunately catches his gaze and nods maliciously.

Jones flashes me a devious grin. "Have a fine day, Miss Faber!" With that, he tips his hat mockingly, gives s repulsing snort, and strides away.

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk…_

And I am left standing there, a she-pirate temporarily drafted aboard another stinking hell-hole, poor throat cracking and hands dripping blood and ooze on to the deck. My head is spinning, and I close my eyes to try to shut out the pain.

_If only, if only, I were back on the Dolphin with Jaimy…_

I can't help but think such thoughts… but I know they won't help, so I chastise myself for them nonetheless.

_Jacky, get a grip! You'll get through this just fine! After all, you've been in worse spots before…_

My eyes suddenly fly open as Maccus shoves me in the back, causing me to go stumbling forward. "Move yerself, ye wretch!" he growls.

…_Haven't you?_


	4. The Easy Work

**Chapter Four: The "Easy" Chore  
****_November 1, a few minutes afore midday_**

The first task that Maccus set me to was, fortunately, one that I am quite familiar with; I am to be the one to pull my lifeboat aboard and lash it into place. Thankfully, Maccus allowed me to cut two strips of cloth off my over-shirt, to make makeshift bandages for my hands, before I set to work. He also recruited my dear friend Crash to assist me in my task, along with another crewman called Hadras, whose head is half-covered by a giant conch shell. We've worked together for about an hour now, with the Bos'un checking our progress occasionally to be sure I wasn't slacking off. _Hmph._ These sea-monster types don't seem to have much faith in the female work ethic, I can say that much.

The last hour has gone by fairly quickly. I was expecting them to be torturous, and perhaps they were a bit. In spite of the bandages, I did leave a fair amount of blood in those ropes as I tied and hauled, which I can assure you was not the most pleasant experience. However, Hadras apparently has this habit of thinking out loud while he works, and that helped to distract me from my pain. Crash evidently didn't find his crewmate's chattering very helpful, seeing as he frequently cursed under his breath and even pulled his sawfish-bone sword on Hadras a few times.

Seeing as I don't particularly trust these sea-monsters to leave my possessions alone, I had dumped my sea-bag in to the boat's cabin when I had scurried down there to lash the lines to its hull, locking the cabin on my way out. The extra weight off my shoulders has made a world of difference, I can assure you.

Then, Crash did leave our little party a while ago in order to do some other task. I can't say that I mind his absence. I suspect Hadras doesn't miss his smiling face much, either. The two crewmen have mostly kept to themselves, though, and so I find it in my best interest to do the same. Besides, most of the work is done, anyway – Hadras and I are just finishing the last few knots.

Stinking hell-hole this blasted ship may be, but for now I am surviving the experience.

I hear footsteps behind me on the deck. I figure it's probably the Bos'un again, curse his evil soul, so I near-unconsciously pick up the pace in my work. Hadras, being across the lifeboat from me, steals a curious glance upwards.

"Maccus," he mutters, "Wot would Maccus want wid Hadras, eh?"

Ah, so it's ol' Sharkhead that's checking on our work then. I snort to myself, unable to decide who was the worse among the two senior officers I'd met.

"I wunner, I wunner," Hadras keeps rambling, "I been working hard, so I have, I swears it. Not my fault we ain't done yet. In out, loop three times, there. Gots it." He tugs hard, finishing that knot, then going to secure another.

Maccus stands directly behind me. I know he's so close, because I can smell his foul breath. _Every_one aboard this ship has some sort of sea-stench to them, I've noticed, yet it seems that each monster has his own distinctive smell. I allow myself a grimace. None of the smells happen to be very pleasant, either. I just hope my poor nose can adjust to this ship's stench soon, before I lose my stomach and vomit bile into the sea. Knowing this crew, they'd probably make me pay the devil until sundown, just to make sure any bile didn't hit the sides of the ship on its way down.

"Hadras," Maccus growls, "Ye're dismissed. Go down and get yer meal. Faber, finish yer work here, and then ye can get yer food when ye're done."

Hadras scurries away, mumbling to himself all the while. Meanwhile, I keep working, trying my best to ignore Sharkhead's constant scrutiny. It's hard enough to keep my sanity aboard a ship such as this, let alone with the first mate nearly breathing down my neck! I grit my teeth, trying to focus on my task, but silently wondering how _any_ of the crewmen survived their first week aboard this hellhole. A few minutes later, I thankfully hear the words I've been anxiously waiting for.

"That's enough, yer done. Be back on deck within the hour." Maccus turns away, no doubt to get his own lunch as well.

I stand up, straightening my weary back, and let out a cracked sigh of relief. _Thank God! Food, and water! Oh, water…_

"I wouldn't be so easily relieved, if I were ye, Faber," Maccus spitefully adds, "The hard work is yet to come." He gives a disgusting laugh and stomps away.

I glance behind me and give an ungraceful scowl, but Sharkhead is already half way across the deck. It's no wonder why I hate that sea-monster. Aye, no wonder at all.


	5. Another Promise Forged

**Chapter Five: Another Promise Forged  
**_**November 1, a few minutes after midday, in the mess-room of the **_**Flying Dutchman**

I stagger through the chaos of the messroom, unsuccessfully trying to avoid as many sea-monsters as possible. The crew has hungrily set to their meal, in all sorts of mannerisms that I believe should go unmentioned - just bear in mind that I've seen many disgusting ways of eating food over the years, yet some of these monsters are doing a fine job of sickening me. Just to think, a few hours ago I would've done anything to be aboard a ship with real food and water. Now that I'm here, well…

_Enough, Jacky!_ _You've done too much complaining already!_

…I suppose this is better than starvation.

I carry my cup and bowl, which I had received just a few minutes ago, close to my chest for protection, and make my way over to a line where the cook is dishing up some… _interesting_-looking gruel. As I get closer, I see it has chunks of raw fish in it, still wriggling and bloody. A few "lucky" crewmen get an eye or two in their lunch. A barrel of water is nearby the large kettle-pot, where crewmen are dipping their cups. _Hmm,_ apparently the stores are short on rum. Not that I mind at all; I'd much rather be around a sober crew of monsters than drunk. I twitch at the thought of an intoxicated Maccus, but then laugh, imagining a drunk, mumbling Hadras.

I get my lunch, my ration of water, and quickly move out of the way before I get slugged my some impatient sea-monster. I look around for a place to eat in relative piece, and finally an abandoned spot in the aft-larboard corner of the room. I make my way over there and sit down on a store-bench, setting to my gruel, my rumbling stomach finally being appeased. I decide to make my water last as long as possible, only taking minute sips at a time.

A short while later, one of the sea-monsters comes trudging over to me. I glance up sharply, expecting trouble. _Hmm,_ I haven't seen this crewman before. He actually appears quite human; a few barnacles and pieces of coral are attached to his face and shoulders, and a faint trace of a… _starfish?_… is visible just over his right eye. He is quiet and forlorn, and doesn't seem to be wanting trouble. Maybe I should give him a chance. After all, Hadras wasn't too much of a problem, once I got used to his odd habit.

The crewmen nods to the empty bench across from me. "This seat taken?" he asks.

I shake my head and tell him to go ahead. He leans over the bench with an odd _creaaak_ and winces as he sits down. I find this a bit odd, but leave it alone and continue eating.

"So, what's your name then, lass?" the crewmen asks.

"Jack Faber." A moment later I add, "Jacky, really. What's yours?"

"Bill Turner… most call me Bootstrap."

I answer with a _well met_, and completely mean it. This Bootstrap seems to be almost friendly, and I know that it couldn't hurt to find a comrade aboard this God-forsaken ship.

Bootstrap glances up at me in curiosity. His next question takes me completely off guard. "You're a bit young to be on this ship, Jacky… How did you die?"

I set down my cup, which I had been drinking from a moment before, and desperately try to keep from sputtering my precious water. I finally manage to swallow and blurt out, "_What?_"

Bootstrap shrugs and slurps up a bit of his gruel. "I know, you didn't quite die, that's why you're not in the Locker, right? But what happened to bring you to the jaws of hell itself?"

…_What sort of ship is this? _I silently wonder. I stare back at Bootstrap, obviously confused.

Bootstrap rolls his eyes. "Why are you on the _Flying Dutchman_?"

The _Flying Dutchman!_ Well, that bloody explains it all! My eyes go wide, and I'm sure it's only my maddening thirst that keeps me from dropping my water-cup onto the floor. The _Dutchman_, indeed. No wonder Maccus and Jones kept calling this a nameless ship – it's barely even a ship at all! At least, a ship that me and my kind would be crewing. My mind flashes back to the legends and tales I've heard from older seamen over the years… a ghost ship, crewed by the damned, unable to make port or find relief from their constant wandering… Granted, many of these tales are probably just fables spun to terrorize ship's boys and entertain the tars, but some, at least _some_ have to be true, lest there'd be no basis.

_But she's still a real ship, Jacky. No matter what you've heard, the _Flying Dutchman_ is made of wood and line and sail like any other vessel… _Aye, and if she's real enough to keep my own feet from falling into the sea, then she must be not ghost enough to keep her from port.

After getting over my initial shock from this realization, I tell him my tale. Not all of it, mind you. Just the part about being on the lifeboat after my ship sunk off Trafalgar, and finding the _Dutchman_, and my agreement with the Captain, and all that. When I'm done, Bootstrap stares at me in horror.

"You have got to be the _stupidest_ girl, let alone sailor, I have ever met!" He spits this out through clenched teeth.

I give him a curious glance for this, lunch long ago forgotten. "…What is it?"

"Oh, nothing at all, you just agreed to serve captain Jones, to sell over your freedom, because you were _thirsty!_"

"…Well," I mutter, "he said it would just be until we reach Boston…"

"And you _believed him?!_ Damn you, Jacky! He's Davy Jones! He makes his living off lies and deceit!"

I begin to make some response, but freeze halfway with my mouth still open. _What the bloody hell- Did he just say _Davy _Jones?!_ I manage to force myself to ask this question. "Davy Jones? As in _the Davy _Jones? The demon of the ocean, the King of the Sea?"

Bootstrap nods solemly. "Aye. _That_ Davy Jones."

I groan and hold my head in my hands. _Damn!_ First the _Dutchman_, and now this! _I should've known it, it was too good to be true, a real ship was never coming for me…_

"Bootstrap… what have I gotten myself into this time?"

Bootstrap stares at me in pity. "You don't want to know, Jacky… you don't want to know."

I glance up. "That doesn't help much."

He rolls his eyes. "And what _would _you have me say, then?"

I don't have an answer for this, so Bootstrap lowers his voice and goes on. "Look, Jacky, you didn't come aboard this ship in the usual means, so there might be a loophole to get you off it again. I just need to know for sure if you did or did not give an oath to Davy Jones. Shaking hands doesn't matter, you do that when you meet people and no one's promising anything. But did you ever- _think hard about this, Jacky_ – did you _ever_ tell Jones that you would serve aboard the _Dutchman_?"

I close my eyes and think back to a few hours ago, when I had first met the captain…

--_"Would ye work as a full member of the crew until we deliver ye to Boston Harbor?" Jones tilted his head and cocked and "eyebrow" meaningfully… I held my chin high and looked Captain Jones straight in his putrid eye. "I could do that, sir."_—

I open my eyes. "No…" I whisper almost giddily, "I never swore an oath to Davy Jones." I break out in a broad grin. "I said that I _could_ serve – but I never said I _would._"

Bootstraps lets out a sigh of relief. "Good. At least we have that much against him." He stands up with another creak. "We still have some time left before we have to be back on deck. Finish your lunch quickly, then come. There are some things I need to show you."

I nod and am about to dig into my gruel again when I realize something. "Wait! Bootstrap… why are you helping me like this?"

Bootstrap's face falls. He looks so forlorn that I almost feel guilty for asking him the question – _almost_. After a few moments' hesitation, Bootstrap answers me in a cracked whisper.

"I am helping you… for the sake of your family. For your father, wherever on God's green earth he may be. I had a son who would be around your age, but I lost him years ago… I would not wish such pain on anyone in the entire world. Jacky Faber, I give you my solemn word, or whatever is left of it, that I will do whatever I can to get you off this cursed ship."

I am taken aback, but still manage to nod gratefully. "Thank you."

Bootstrap manages a small smile. "Now finish your lunch, will ye? There's still a _lot_ you need to know about the _Flying Dutchman_."

Without further ado, I start slurping up raw fish intestines. _Mmmm_…

_This ought to be a damn good story to tell Jaimy when I get out of here._


	6. A Lesson in Dutchman Lore

**Chapter 6: A Lesson in Dutchman-Lore  
****_November 1, about quarter-after midday_**

I finish my fishgut-gruel with much pleasure, seeing as it tastes better than hardtack (which has no taste, mind you) and is more nourishing as well. I even lick my bowl clean, a habit I haven't practiced since my days as a ship's boy. Bootstrap watches me for the most part, although his gaze wanders to other members of the crew at times. I've noticed that he seems to be really on edge, as if he's expecting trouble. _Hmm_, I can't really blame him much for that, considering whose ship we're on. _Davy Jones… Captain of the _Flying Dutchman. I still can't bring myself to fully believe it. I have seen and done many strange things in my day - but none the likes of _this_.

But I merely shrug off such thoughts and drink my water, savoring each sip. The matter of fact is that I am on this cursed ship; what I should be thinking about is how I'm going to get _off_.

I mention this to Bootstrap, and he gives a grim smile in return. "Aye, Jacky. It will be a bit of work to set you free… but I can promise, I'll give my best to help you."

I glance up at him. "Thank you." I laugh under my breath. "Again."

Bootstrap shoots me a piercing look. "Save your thanks for when you get off this god-forsaken ship." He hesitates. "…but I appreciate the thought."

I drink the last of my water and stand up. "Ready."

Bootstrap nods. "Good. Sit back down. Pretend you're finishing lunch, but listen closely. Your first lesson starts here."

I obey, though with a bit of confusion.

Bootstrap glances across the room, not looking me in the face. "You need to know about the crew," he mutters softly. "As you can probably tell, we are cursed."

I nod slightly, looking down at my empty bowl.

"Aye, men we were, but each of us sold our soul to Davy Jones. We did it thinking we were delaying our death… we discovered a life far worse than death."

I glance up at Bootstrap, a questioning look on my face.

"One hundred years we must serve aboard the _Flying Dutchman_," he explains, "One hundred years of slavery. We must do the Captain's bidding whether we like it or not." His face twists in anguish. "We must lie, steal, even murder if Davy Jones so commands."

I hang my head, guilty for being so quick to judge the crew as monsters. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

Bootstrap scowls at me. "Once again, I appreciate the thought, Jacky. But save your pity for those who actually deserve it. We chose this fate, each one of us, and we must live with our decision." His face lightens somewhat. "Now, you need to learn who the crewmen _are_, understand?"

I nod.

He slightly points across the room. I glance in that direction and see three crewmen sitting at a bench, talking together. One resembles a puffer-fish, the other is completely covered in mussels and barnacles, and the last is my dear friend Maccus.

"Clanker. The one with all the mussels. He likes to make new recruits' lives miserable, scaring them and forcing them to do the worst jobs. Bit of a gambler, he is, and he's usually none too pretty a character after he loses. Stay out of his way as much as possible."

His finger shifts to Sharkhead. "Maccus. First Mate. I think you've already met him, but just a warning – he's worse than ol' Clank. Tends to act like he's the Captain whenever Jones isn't around. Stay out of his way, yes, but preferably stay out of his eyeshot as well. He'll not just make your life miserable…" Bootstrap hesitates. "…he'll make it hell."

I scowl at ol' Sharkhead. "Trust me, I've already noticed."

Bootstrap nods. "Thought as much." He points to the puffer-fish. "That's Mister Koleniko. The coxs'n. Whenever he addresses you, always give an answer, and always do it respectfully. Call him 'Coxswain, Sir' or 'Mister Koleniko,' and soon he'll be calling you 'Miss Faber' in return. Respect and titles mean a lot to him - probably because it's the only thing he has left on this ship. Mister Koleniko's a good sailor, for the most part. He just gets a bit vicious when he's with Jones's cronies. Has to act like an officer, after all, and Devil knows that officers _must_ be cruel to their underlings." Bootstrap shakes his head. "On the _Dutchman_, they do, at least."

He glances over to his right. I follow his gaze and see another table, this one with two crewmen. One of them, the bos'un, looks somewhat like a stonefish; the other is mussel-covered, but is wearing a stocking cap, which sets him apart from… Clanker!

_Damn, I've got to remember these names better._

Bootstrap nods to the stonefish. "Our friendly Bos'un. I think you've met him as well, and it would be best if you don't have to meet 'im again. His name's Jimmylegs, but don't let him hear you calling him that, or you'll meet the Cat." He gives me a piercing stare. "And trust me, you do _not_ want to meet the Cat on this ship. The Bos'un prides himself on cleaving flesh from bone with every swing. Do your duties, Jacky, and do them well, and hopefully you'll never make him angry."

I cringe, making a mental note to never, _ever_ slack off when Jimmylegs is on deck. Hell, not that I'd want to do it anyway… but it doesn't hurt to remind myself.

Bootstrap glances at Stocking-cap Head. "That un's Old Haddy. Fierce fighter, tough sailor. I've almost never seen him show any feeling… except perhaps a bit of glee when he's killing someone."

So it goes on. Bootstrap gradually introduces me to the crew of the _Flying Dutchman_. I learn many names and faces, including Ogilvey, Quittance, Wheelback, Ratlin, Penrod, the Twins, and others. Palifico isn't in the mess-room, being Davy Jones's personal guard, but Bootstrap describes him to me. He also mentions a Greenbeard, says he's the helmsman and so takes his lunch by the wheel. Then there's also Wyvern. Bootstrap says he'll introduce him to me later. Apparently he's the lantern-bearer, or something like that, and cannot ever leave his post.

_Hmm, at least I didn't get stuck with __**that**_ _job._

One message that I pick up in this quick lesson is that most of the crewmen are either evil or deranged. I find it a bit strange that Bootstrap would be the _only_ good man aboard this ship.

"Is it really that _every_ crewman cannot be trusted, except you?" I ask.

Bootstrap sits down across from me, his eyes burning with conviction. "Jacky, on behalf of my fellow crewmates, I tell you this. Do not trust _any_one on this ship until they have proven themselves worthy of such trust."

I meet his sharp gaze. "How can you tell me of these things, warn me, even promise to help me off this ship - and then tell me not to trust you? How do you expect me to believe _anything_ you say, if you cannot even prove yourself to be honest?"

Bootstrap shakes his head. "I never said I wasn't honest, Jacky. I never told you not to trust me. I just don't want you to blindly follow anyone. Use your own head and judgment. Understood?"

I nod, even though I'm still a bit disturbed by his message.

Bootstrap stares at me, as if he doesn't quite believe me. "You don't really understand, do you, Jacky? You don't know where you are, who you're up against."

I tell him that I know I'm on Davy Jones's ship, but like I said before, there's nothing I can do about that fact now, and-

"No!" Bootstrap cuts me off. "That's what I mean, you don't understand." He hesitates. "Davy Jones thinks you're cursed, thinks you're a part of his crew. I don't know how or why he slipped up and took a 'could' as a 'would', but that's beside the point. No matter what happens, you cannot let anyone know that you're still free. That is your one, and so far only, bargaining chip. If an officer, or worse – Jones himself – found out about you, it would be over then and there. They'd force you to swear an oath, and then you wouldn't leave this ship for one hundred bloody years! Jacky, this is _Davy Jones_ you're up against! Don't you see?"

I pause for a moment. "I… think I do."

Bootstrap's searching gaze doesn't falter. "You _think_ you do. Well, that's a lot of help. Your _thinking_ is what got you on this ship in the first place! Jacky, you have to know, have to _realize_ what a dangerous path you're in. These crewmen, they don't give a damn about you, except maybe torturing you for their own sadistic entertainment. Especially Jones's cronies, his senior officers. They will hurt you in any way possible. They will spit upon the honor that you guard with your life! You have to guard yourself, protect your heart and mind. You cannot show any sign of weakness, if at all possible. Do _not_ give the officers, or any crewmen, a way to pull you down."

He falters for a moment. "…I -I've been here several years. Not very long compared to a century, but long enough to know what goes on aboard the _Dutchman_. I can tell you, it ain't pretty. I have given my word to help you get off… but I need you to help as well. Jacky, you cannot afford to say or do _anything_ foolish. _Do you understand me?_" He spits out the last part, almost spitefully.

I nod, and this time answer more convincingly. "Aye." I can't resist adding, "I will do my absolute best to restrain myself from participating in any foolish, reckless, or unwise action while I am aboard the _Flying Dutchman_." I give a quick wink. "Though I'm sure it will be hard for me to do so."

Bootstrap rolls his eyes. "I wish you'd take something I say seriously, for once!"

I laugh under my breath. "Oh, I do. I just prefer being lighthearted in times such as these. It makes it easier to think clearly."

Bootstrap grunts. "…I suppose it does," he mutters. He glances about the mess-room. "Looks like it's almost time to head back to work, Jacky. One last thing. Let me see your hands."

I give him a questioning look. "Why?"

"You've got 'em bandaged," he explains. "So let me see 'em."

With a bit of hesitation, I unwrap my bandages. Slowly. Painfully. But in the end, I grit my teeth together and get it done. I glance down at my hands. The blisters are, for the most part, empty of fluids and the scabs are still a bit damp, but at least they're not dripping anymore. Not so bad; I've seen worse. The only thing that makes me a bit nervous is the green tinges to the torn skin. I show my hands to Bootstrap.

He winces. "Jacky, for the love of God, what did you _do_ to yourself?"

I force a grin. "Oh, not much. Just a bit of rowing for eleven bloody days on end, which as you can imagine will create quite a few blisters. And then when I came aboard, I discovered how wonderfully sharp barnacles can be. Oh, and I don't think the captain's slimy grip helped much, either. Nor did hauling my lifeboat aboard and lashing it into place, I imagine. But it's not as bad as it could be. I'll live."

Bootstrap looks up from my sore and bloodied hands. "You need to let these heal," he says, "Otherwise infection – or _worse_ – will set in."

I don't even want to ask what the worse option is. "And how would you have me do that, Bootstrap? Let my hands heal aboard _this_ hellhole?"

Bootstrap thinks about this for a moment. I'm not sure his response is much of an answer, but at least it gives me a bit of hope. "Go up to your cabin. Put your cup and bowl away, and get ready to work. I'm going to take care of this."

I shoot him an uncertain look as I rewrap my hands. "What are you going to do?"

He gives a hint of a smile. "Pull a few strings. Now go, Jacky. Before Maccus or the Bos'un notice us talking like this."

I stand up to leave. "Good luck, Bootstrap." I offer.

He nods. "My thanks. I'll probably need it."

I make my way out of the mess-room, which by now is starting to empty as the crewmen finish their lunches. I hold my cup and bowl close to my chest; if I lose them, I don't think the cook would allow me a second set. As I make my way to the stairway and up to the deck, I hear Bootstrap's low voice behind me.

"Mister Koleniko… may I have a word with you?"


	7. A Ghost of the Past

**Chapter 7: A Ghost of the Past  
**_**November 1, about half-past midday**_

As I make my way to the top of the stairs and step out onto the deck, the first thing that hits me is a sudden gust of wind. I glance up at the sails, and the tattered things are flapping desperately in the breeze. I smile and break out into a relieved laugh. The wind has returned, at last! _And about time, too. _I glance across the deck, out to the sea. Looks like the fog hasn't left yet. If anything, it looks thicker. _Strange. _I would think it should've cleared up by now, with the sea-breeze and all... But then again, that fog is not half as strange as this ship that I'm aboard.

_The Flying Dutchman_. Huh, the bloody sods could've told me beforehand just what sort of ship I was signing up for.

"Oi, move yerself!" A cracked voice calls out. I look up at the source of the voice, and I jump out of the way in time to have a reeking, filthy, clam-dotted crewman charge past me from belowdecks.

I try to voice a quick apology, but he's already running at a breakneck speed, and as he hits the top of the companionway, he trips on the hatch, sending his water and gruel flying across the decks. The clammy sea-monster himself goes skidding to the deck with a _thunk_.

_Aw, crud. This doesn't look good_… I try to back away, keeping my eyes fixed on the crewman. Clammy picks himself up slowly, grabs his now-empty cup and bowl, and gives me an icy glare that would… _that would freeze a kettle o' boiling stew_, I finish the sentence in my head.

Clammy gives me a disgusting snarl. "Yew filthy wench, I told yew to get out o' my way!"

I keep backing away from him, but hold my head high as I answer, "I _did._ You're the one that tripped."

Clammy spits. "Like bloody 'ell I did."

As he stalks closer to me, I realize with anxiety that I left my shiv down in my cuddy, in my sea-bag. _Dammit!_ _I could really need that now._

Clammy throws his cup and bowl on the deck, and draws a coral-dagger out of his belt. "I'll spill yer innards for this, Bloody Mary!"

I freeze. _Bloody Mary?_ I haven't been called that since Cheapside. I inch my way over to the mizzen's rigging. _After all, ain't no one who can beat Jacky Faber in the rigging, right?_ I try to stall the sea-monster for a little bit. "My name ain't Mary," I inform him, setting my own cup and bowl on the deck. _I'm gonna need my hands for this._

Clammy laughs. "Eh, wouldn't ya like to say that. Yew've grown up a bit, but no, I never forget a face, I don't. It was you and your damn Rooster gang that caused me to have to run north. It was cuz o' _yew_ that I got picked up on this a-cursed ship! And now it's cuz o' _yew_ that I spill o' slimy Greenbeard's lunch and I'll get a whippin' for it. So I figger I'll make yew pay for what you done to me. Little bleedin' bloody Mary, you was. Don't know what yew call yerself now, don't give a damn though."

He snarls at me. "C'mon, don't tell me yew've already forgotten ol' Pigger, 'ave yew?"

I narrow my eyes. _Pigger, eh?_ Pigger O'Toole. I would've never recognized him under all his clammy attire, so it's a good thing he named himself. Can't say I feel much pity for him, even though he had the misfortune of running from the coppers, only to end up aboard the _Dutchman_.

I venture a quick glance over my shoulder. I'm too far from the ratlines; I don't think I can make it aloft in time. _Damn._ _I've got to find myself a weapon, before-_

Pigger lunges at me, knife drawn.

I duck beneath the blow and hit the deck, rolling out of the way and… right into his spilled fishgut-gruel. _Now that's disgusting_. No time to think about that, though. I pick myself up, scurrying off to the side to try to put more distance between me and my old mate Pigger. The gangleader-turned-monster flails his knife around, obviously _still_ unskilled with it after all these years. I notice a bit of loose line coiled to my left. It seems a bit heavy, but it's better than nothing… I duck as Pigger tries punching at me and grab the line, ignoring my screaming hands as I brandish it as best I can.

Pigger laughs. "Heh, so yew even picked out me rope for me. That's good, I'll tie yew up wit' it before I cut up yer guts."

I grit my teeth and ignore his jesting comments. Pigger does to stab me in the stomach, but I jump to his side and avoid the blow. However, I don't see the hook-punch coming from Pigger's left side. I hit the deck with a _thud_ as his fist connects with my skull. _Not good._ I'm a bit dazed for half a moment, but I lash out with the line. Luckily, I manage to catch Pigger when he's off balance, and I take out his foot, causing him to stumble a bit. This gives me the moment I've been looking for. I jump to my feet, as best I can, and dash across the deck.

Finally, I reach the railing and start scurrying up one of the ratlines. _Thank God._ I jump on their underside – better to get higher than waste time going around proper – and manage to get a few rungs up, when Pigger catches my ankle and starts to pull.

"Yer gonna regret this!" he spits.

I kick out with my other foot, holding on to the upper rungs with my hands. I loosen his grip a little, but not enough.

_Damn! So bloody close! But I ain't finished yet._

I try again, aiming for his knuckles. In response, Pigger pulls out his knife. He raises it, as if to slice my foot… when a weed-like hand grabs Pigger's neck from behind, ripping him to the deck. I fall, too, but catch myself on the bottom ratline before hitting the deck. I glance up – Pigger's lying on his back, with a sword to his neck and a seaweed-clad foot on his chest. Pigger's terror-striken face starts blubbering uncontrollably.

"Greenbeard, sir, I swear it wasn't me fault! She tripped me, she did, caused me to send yer midday grub everywhere. She-"

"_Enough!_" Greenbeard growls. "I saw the whole thing, Clamface."

Pigger starts shaking. "I was jus-"

Greenbeard steps harder on Pigger's stomach, causing him to yelp. "Shut yer slimy gob before I cut it off for you. You were just _clumsy_, that's what you were. Now you're gonna go get a mop and swab up yer mess o'er there by the stairs. And _then_ you're gonna go back to the galley and tell the cook what happened, and get me my midday gruel. Since we're short on rations, it's comin' out o' _your_ sup, got that?"

Pigger nods vigorously. "Aye!"

Greenbeard snarls. "And _then_ you're going to explain the whole thing to our Bos'un. And for God's sake, Clamface, you're going to leave the new recruits _alone_!" He removes his foot from Pigger's chest. "Now get to it!"

Pigger O'Toole, once bitter enemy of the Rooster Charly gang, scurries to his feet and runs away, like a dog with its tail between its legs. I can't help but laugh a little at the sight.

Greenbeard sheaths his sword. "I would've stopped him sooner," he mutters, "but I had to lash the wheel. Hope you understand." He then turns to look at me for the first time. "Bloody Mary, eh?" he asks, flashing a mussel-toothed smirk at me. "How do you know ol' Clamface, then?"

I jump back down to the deck. "I had the misfortune of meeting him several times in my childhood." I hesitate for a moment. "Is it that obvious?"

Greenbeard glares in the direction Pigger ran. "He has a habit o' messin' with the new crewmen an' all, but he ne'er calls them by _name._" He glances back at me. "And how _do_ you get 'Mary' out o' Jack Faber, eh?"

_Bloody hell, how much do I have to tell you, anyway?_ "Err… had to change my name once."

Greenbeard chuckles. "Well, where'er yer going, Faber, you'd best go quickly. Midday break's almost over. And you'd hate to have the Mate find you late. Just a bit o' advice, you might want to get a weapon o' some sorts. Don't think that'll be yer last tangle on these decks, 'specially to last ye a hundred years."

I glance over to my lifeboat, thinking of my shiv tucked away in my cuddy there. "I'll do that, sir." I look back to thank Greenbeard, but he's already left, making his way back to the quarterdeck and the wheel. "Thank you, anyway," I mutter under my breath.

I go back to pick up my cup and bowl. As I walk across the deck, I can't help but feel at least a _little_ joy in my heart, despite being a bit shaken by the attack I just experienced. After all, the wind has finally picked up (praise be to God), I have food and water in my stomach, I _think_ I have two allies aboard this ship, and most importantly, I'm not stranded in middle of the ocean anymore. And I've already survived half of my first day aboard this stinking hellhole. Not bad, even for Tonda-Lay-O, former Queen of the Ocean Sea. The way I figure, things could have turned out much worse, anyway. Humming a little ditty to myself (though still keeping a watchful eye open for other crewmen), I go over to my lifeboat lashed near the starboard-bow rail.

I go down into the cabin and set my cup and bowl on my small bunk. I pull out my seabag and open it wide, and I tuck my simple utensils next to my infamous robber's costume for safe keeping. Then, I grab a few necessary items from the bag. My shiv. I was a bloody fool not to have it on my person in the first place. I tuck the blade into my vest, between my ribs - that will do for now. A few bits of cloth, to replace the bloodied rags on my hands. My eye catches on my pennywhistle, my faithful friend stashed under the cloth strips. _Hmm, it certainly wouldn't hurt to have some music on this ship._ I glance down at my hands – most of the blisters and scabs are around the palm and lower finger-joints. I'm fairly certain I could still play my whistle. With a slight smile, I tuck it next to my shiv. If I manage to get some free time, I might play a song or two for myself.

Then I see my miniature portrait of Jaimy. _Oh, dear Jaimy! _Tears moisten my eyes, and I send up a silent prayer for his safety – and my own. I'm lost in wordless memories for just a moment, but then I shake my head to clear my thoughts. _Enough of that, girl_. I close up my seabag again and stash it under my bunk. Then, I leave my little cuddy, closing it up behind me. God forbid that any of the officers should decide to investigate it.

A voice from across the deck hits my ears.

I turn to see the source. _Well, speaking of officers…_ Jimmylegs is coming up from belowdecks, followed closely after by Koleniko. The coxs'n seems to be talking anxiously with Jimmylegs. Almost pleading. My eyes narrow. _What is he doing?_ I try to inch my way closer to them, hoping to picks up bits of their conversation.

"…_only till she… why should I… can't let 'er… responsible… don't see why… agreed…"_

_Wait- 'she'? My God._ The realization hits me. _They're talking about _me

The two officers make their way up to the quarterdeck. I follow them from a slight distance, in case I can snatch a few more words from their conversation. But my luck doesn't last out that far – it never does. Just as I'm passing by the steps to the messroom, I hear ol' Sharkhead's voice call out from belowdecks,

"_That's enough! Back on deck, ye worthless scum! All hands, gather at the mizzen!_"

Crewmen come pouring out from the messroom, as if the devil himself were behind them. They group around the mizzen, instantly cutting off my passage to Koleniko and Jimmylegs. _Damn._ _So much for that._ I throw one last glance in the officers and catch a glimpse of Koleniko addressing my seaweed-clad friend from behind the wheel. Then Hadras steps up next to me, completely blocking my view of the quarterdeck. I'm forced to turn my attention to the First Mate, who is now just coming up from the mess-room himself. Maccus faces the crew with a scowl on his face.

"Ye lot got a shortened midday break, I know it already," he tells us, "But I've got new work for ye lot, and we set to it right away. Cap'n wants another set of cannons set in the prow. Guess who gets the lucky job o' _that_, mates."

"We're getting _triple_ guns, sir?" A high voice squeaks out. All heads turn around to look at the questioner, revealing a small, shrimp-like sea-monster. Penrod. The shrimp winces at all the crewmen staring him down, but Sharkhead just laughs.

"Aye. You know how to count, Master Penrod? Two pairs o' fore-cannons, add another, you get three, eh?" Maccus flashes him a revolting smirk.

Penrod glances at his feet. "Aye, sir."

Maccus snarls. "Ask another stupid thing like that and you'll be wishin' ye were born without a tongue, _shrimp_." The First Mate glances about the crew. "Any more questions?" he growls.

Not a single voice is heard, save for the rush of the wind o'er the sea.

"Good." He starts to rattle out orders. "Most of ye know where to set to. The guns are belowdecks, stored beside the starboard cannons. Turner, Quittance, Clanker, Wheelback, Angler, and Haddy, bring 'em up on the deck. Ratlin, you've got the crow's nest. Greenbeard's on the wheel with Mister Koleniko. The rest o' ye, set to work on making the guns' space in the rotation. Any men left over should report back to me."

_Aye, aye, sir_'s were heard throughout the deck as crewmen scurried to their various posts. I start to make my way towards the prow of the ship, thinking I'll help out in the "rotation" or whatever he was talking about, when Sharkhead calls out my name.

"Faber!"

I turn around sharply and stand at attention. "Sir?"

Maccus scowls. "I got a different job for you. Rumor has it ye left a bit of a mess o'er there by the starboard rail." He picks up a bucket and rag and shoves them in my direction. "Clean it up. Report back when you're done."

I have to admit, I'm a bit caught off guard by his order. _Scrub the deck? You actually __**care**__ about the condition of this ship?_ I manage to bite my tongue and keep quiet, though, save for a mere "aye, aye, sir."

He fixes me with a cold glare. "And stay _out_ of our way," he snarls. With that, he storms off to direct the work happening at the prow.

As I pick up the bucket, I can't help but mutter a small retort under my breath.

_All too gladly, sir._


	8. Of Dropping Eaves & Blackened Mail, p 1

And a little post-it from the author…

_I'm baaaack! Yes, I'm still alive. Yes, I still care about this fic and want to finish it out. And yes, I'm **very** grateful that people continue to read (and review) in spite of my dearth of updates! On that note, due to the length of my "special thanks," I decided to actually reply to the reviews via that little "reply" button and not in this chapter. (If you didn't get a reply, my apologies and know that I still love and thank ye…) Oi, and one more thing! I've actually got a character to call me own now. There's one not-so-friendly chap mentioned what's not seen movie, an' he goes by the name o' Ripper. (Don't worry, he has a purpose, but he's just makin' his entrace now.) But everyone else ain't mine, kay? Good. On with the tale!_

the little, necessary note before each chapter... also entitled "Special Thanks!"  
-L.A. Meyer. you created the true tales of the Jacky Faber, and for that, we humble and dedicated fans of _la belle jeune fille sans merci_ are forever in your debt.  
-my wonderful reviewers: shamroxandsweepers, Katyann, KuroxTenshi, Aquila.I am the water bird., elven cats eyes, a.s.a.h.i.k.a.g.e., pookiespear, CJ&SB, Nerd's United, Arait, Slasharific, Larael, JeanieBeanie33, soupkitchen (and extra kudos & love to you for reviewing my "Kraken's Song"!), R1D3R, & pirateobsessed. God bless you all!

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 8: Of Dropping Eaves and Blackened Mail, part 1  
**_November 1, once again on the deck of the _Flying Dutchman

I trudge to the starboard rail, intent on getting this job done with as soon as I bloody can. No sailor that I've ever known has been fond of deck-scrubbing, my humble self included, though all of us have done our share of the dirty work at one time or other. I steal a glance back towards the prow, where the most part of the crew is slaving away under the Bos'un's watchful glare.

_You can't complain much, girl_, I remind myself once gain. _After all, your hands are getting out of _that_ work load… for the moment, at least_.

I reach the spot of my little mess, the blood from my very hands, now in a gruesome display on the deck. I set down my bucket carefully, so as not to spill one drop of its stagnant contents, and kneel facing the larboard-prow, so I can watch the crew as I work. I pick up the rag and glare at the bucket distastefully. I know the water is going to sting my just-sealed cuts something fierce... but it will also clean them up a bit, I hope.

_What the hell. Let's just get this done, shall we?_ I grit my teeth and shove the rag into the bucket. My palms burn like bloody fire an' brimstone and I wince more than a bit, but I soak the filthy rag as best I can, anyway. Then I slab it on the deck, towards the closest edge of the blood stain, and start scrubbing away.

_That's it. Just get your rhythm down and you'll be done in no time._ As I fall into a steady pace, I steal a glance across the deck towards Pigger. The sod is swabbing up his mess, all right, but isn't doing much of a fine job at it. _He'll be at that job awhile, if he keeps _stabbing_ the deck with the swab. _I force down a smirk. _Doesn't seem to know much of anything, that one… except how to bully little'uns, maybe._

I turn to watch the rest of the crew. One of the new guns has been hauled on the deck, and several deck hands are heaving it towards the prow, with the other sets of guns up there. _Rotating guns, eh? _An interesting prospect, I must say. These sea-monsters sure have creativity when it comes to bloody warfare.

_Warfare._ Just at the thought of that word, images of my own battle begin to fill my head. Sights I thought were put out of memory come back in all of their horrible splendor. _The screams, the guns blowing, the decks shattering, and oh the blood, all the blood!_ I close my eyes and shake my head over and over, trying to rid my ears of the still undying screams, trying to rid my mind of the bodies and wreckage. _Damn war!_ I clench my rag tighter, ignoring my screaming hands.

_Thunk._

My eyes fly open. _Thunk. Thunk_. That blasted sound again! It can only mean one thing – the Captain's coming. I whirl my head around, glancing back toward his cabin. Sure enough, there comes the hideous Davy Jones himself, striding out into the foggy sunlight with his awkward limp.

"Cap'n on deck!" Greenbeard calls out from the quarterdeck.

Jones surveys the deck, glancing over the crew's deck. Just before his gaze lands on me, I duck and cast my eyes down to my scrubbing. _Come on, girl, you can't afford to look like you're slacking off! Now, put your back into it and…_ and my curiosity gets the better of me. I look up, against my better judgment.

Jimmylegs is making his way towards the captain. "Larboard-prow gun is almost done, Sir. Rotations are set up and installation is under way."

Jones throws a glance at the Bos'un. "So I can see." He motions towards his First Mate, who is heaving away alongside my dear friend Crash. "Send Maccus o'er here."

Jimmylegs gives the Captain a questioning look, but nonetheless carries out the order. "Aye, aye, Sir." He strides over to the crew, his face set and grim. "Oi! Ripper, Ol' Haddy, take Maccus's place on the tackle! Step to it, you lazy clods!"

Two crewmen, one short and stocky, the other thin and gangly and almost wraithlike, hurry to join Maccus and Crash on the tackle and line. The pair stops hauling away, but Maccus keeps a firm grip on the line until Haddy and Ripper have their places and are ready to go. The two successfully take over his place, and nary is an inch of line given in the process. I must say it was well done – for sea-monsters, anyway.

Maccus glances to the Captain, who nods in confirmation. The First Mate then hurries to his master's side. "Aye, Cap'n?"

_Hmm… this could get interesting._ I shuffle around until I can watch the pair of officers out of the corner of my eye, while still keeping my head low and supposedly on my work.

The Captain is silent for a few beats, but then speaks up in a quite derogatory and I'm sure cantankerous tone of voice. "Why do we have _two_ crewmen cleanin' the deck?"

"Both scrubbin' their own messes, Sir," Maccus explains, "Clamface o'er there lost Greenbeard's midday grub, or so the Bos'un tells me, and then Faber got 'er blood all o'er the starboard deck 'n scuppers."

_Thanks to Captain Jones, I did!_ I give a disdainful sniff at ol' Sharkhead's comment.

"Ye're lettin' 'er scrub the deck… o'er _blood_?" Jones asks incredulously.

Maccus offers a hesitant answer. "Aye, Sir…"

The Captain snarls. "Since when, do we _ever_, clean the deck o'er blood?" He cocks his head to the side, as if to emphasize his point.

"Ne'er have afore…" Maccus hastily mumbles.

Jones snorts. "Aye, me mate," he sneers, "never."

_Never clean up blood, eh?_ I grimace at the thought of what the ship must be like after a battle. _No wonder this place smells like a hellhole._

"I would hate tae have a new recruit miss out on all the fun," the Captain continues, "so what do _you_ imagine should be done then, hmm?" He fixes his First Mate with a piercing stare, the likes of which could shake the nerves of any sailor, sea-monster or not.

Maccus hisses under his breath and glances down. "Well, I would set 'er to work on the guns if I could, but…"

Jones cocks an eyebrow, a half smirk on his face. "But?"

"'Tis not quite my decision, Sir."

_What?_ My head snaps up as I turn to stare at him. _Not his decision?_ Suddenly, I remember how Bootstrap talked to Koleniko… Koleniko was talking to Jimmylegs about me just a little while ago... I put two and two together and realize that Koleniko could very well have told Maccus about me as well. _So Bootstrap's the reason I'm scrubbing the deck, eh?_ I allow myself a visible scowl. _I think I might demand a few words of explanation, come dinnertime! _

Davy Jones nods mockingly. "I see." Sarcasm and contempt drip off his hardened voice. "Tell me, who is the First Mate on my ship?"

Maccus pulls a wry grimace, as if he knows what's coming next. Heh, he probably does, too, after serving on this bloody ship for God knows how long. Maccus finally gives an uneasy reply. "…I am."

Jones violently whirls around and roars in his face. "Then ye'd best start actin' like one!"

Maccus violently recoils and even backs away a few steps. I can almost hear him cursing under his breath, no doubt cursing his ill fortune that I came aboard this morn and ruined his lovely day. Well, it's not that I can blame him, mind you, with the Captain enraged as he is, but I find myself chuckling a bit at the fear on Sharkhead's face. 'Tis good to see _him_ in a tight spot, after what he put me through earlier!

Davy Jones seethes in his rage and turns away at his First Mate, turning his back from me as well. The Captain stares out over the sea, silent for a few beats, but then speaks up once again. "Who was the bilge-rat what overruled ye, eh?" His curiosity is more than a little apparent.

Maccus nods back towards the quarterdeck. "Koleniko," he hastily explains, "'e informed me that Faber's hands need to seal up, an' strongly… _requested_ that I go easier on 'er. If ye get my meanin', Sir."

My eyes narrow. _Koleniko! So my guess was right, after all_.

A wicked smile lights up the Captain's face, instantly squelching any slight joy I might have still had. "I get yer meanin', all right," Jones chuckles, though his voice is still laced with icy contempt. "Send Koleniko to my quarters… I believe there's something he an' I need tae speak about."

Maccus sighs in relief. "Aye, aye, Cap'n."

Davy Jones nods in satisfaction, then turns and limps back to his cabin. _Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk…_ I wince a bit at that cursed noise, but not too much. Instead, I watch as Maccus climbs up to the quarterdeck and approaches the Koleniko. I can't make out what they're saying from this far away, but I know the general message that will be delivered.

My eyes narrow. It looks like Bootstrap's "strings" just got discovered, and by the Captain himself, no less. This can't be good. Not for Koleniko, nor for me. I set to my scrubbing with increased vigor. _I've got to get this done, and I've got to warn Bootstrap! Come on, girl, get this part here. Now one more rinse… and this little bit here… For the love of God, you filthy stain, can't you wash out any faster? _

Koleniko stiffly walks down to the deck, Maccus trailing at his heels and grinning like a spoiled puppy. Then, the First Mate returns back to his work at the prow, and the Coxs'n solemnly enters the Captain's cabin. As he disappears from sight, I silently bid him good luck – and I know he'll need it, too.

I chuckle a bit as I watch ol' Sharkhead kick Pigger on his way by. Pigger goes tumbling down to the deck, headfirst. I hear several of degrading curses stream forth, none of which are worth repeating due to their foul and horribly uncreative manner. Fortunately for him, none of said obscenities were directed at any senior officers, or methinks my old friend would be feeling the Cat about now. Pigger pushes himself up from the deck, and as he lifts his head, his eye catches mine. I send the git a cheerful wink before setting back to work. Perhaps there's a bit of justice in the world, after all.

_All right, that's enough. Back to work, you.

* * *

_

A short while later, I kneel back on my haunches and flex my weary back. _Done scrubbing, at last!_ The deck is not exactly spotless, considering its much abused and dirtied nature, but there's not a trace of my own blood anywhere. Well, I take that back. The spare water in my bucket has a certain reddish tint to it, as does the washing rag, but Maccus did not order me to clean water or laundry. My work, for the moment, is complete. I steal a glance at Pigger. Still stabbing the deck with his swab, eh? Ah well, some folks never do learn.

I send my gaze forwards, towards the main body of the crew. The larboard-prow gun is finished, and they've started installing the starboard one. I must say that the crew of the _Dutchman_ is quite efficient in their work – probably have a certain Captain to thank for that. I watch them for a moment, straining and heaving under the frequent lash and blow of the Bo'sun, one of the weaker crewmen crying out in pain every now and then. I can't help but be grateful that I don't have to partake of that job – though I'm not sure how long this status quo will last, with Koleniko currently being interrogated by Davy Jones and Maccus all too eager to set me to work.

_One step at a time, girl. _For now, I've got to report to Sir Sharkhead and pick up my next assignment.

I stand up and dump the filthy water into the sea, then replace the bucket and rag where I had found them. _Filthy job number one, finished._ I smile faintly at the thought. If my first day here set me to scrubbing blood, who knows what these sea monsters might have me do before this is all finished?

_Ah, but beggars can't be choosers, Jacky_, I remind myself. _You wanted a ship and you bloody well got one – at least be glad you're not wandering in a lifeboat anymore._

I pause for a moment, thinking that over. _Then again, I may not be wandering for a very long time, if Davy Jones doesn't hold to his word._

I hear footsteps coming up behind me and whirl around sharply, only to find myself staring face-to-face with the First Mate himself. _Maccus_. I find myself automatically standing at attention, though I'd rather be spitting in the monster's face, and clenching my teeth tightly together. The shark snarls at me, flaunting his disgust in my face.

"You done yet, wench?" he hisses.

I let out a sharp breath, stopping myself from making an unpleasant retort, and give him instead the proper military answer. "Aye, Sir!" I keep a steady gaze. "Was just about to report back, as it were."

Maccus gives me an odd stare, as if he's trying to decipher something in his head. He runs a slimy tongue over his sharpened teeth, scowling at one thought, then smirking at another. I hold myself at attention through this revolting display, though my patience with this creature is all but worn thin. Finally, he glares me down, hisses under his breath, and makes some kind of intelligent command.

"Show me yer hands, Faber," he snarls.

Now _that _catches me off guard. _Since when did **he** start caring about them?_ I force myself to keep a stone face and not show any emotion, but my hands do shake the slightest bit as I hold them out for him to see.

The First Mate glances down, and winces.

My eyebrows raise just the slightest bit. _Sharkhead doesn't like my scabs, eh?_ He must've caught my look though, because the grimace was gone in half a moment, replaced by a hardened scowl.

"Can ye use 'em?" he asks icily.

"Well, I can apparently scrub the deck," I answer sharply, indicating where I had been working. Maccus glances that way for just a moment, registering the cleaned spot, before turning my way again. I pause a beat, then motion my head upwards. "And I can climb the rigging as well as any-"

A sharp hiss cuts me short. "_I'll_ be the judge o' that. Now what about hauling?"

_Damn._ I was hoping he wouldn't ask that. Freeloader I most certainly am not, but that doesn't mean I want to run around getting my hands cut open over and over and over again…

"I'll do my best, Sir." Best answer I think I can give, all things considered.

Maccus lowers his voice threateningly. "You'd better give yer best an' more, Faber," he growls, "or by the devil I will make ye sorely regret steppin' aboard this ship!"

Oh, I bet he will, the filthy blackguard! _All right, calm down now, calm down…_ God knows I'm struggling so very hard not to punch him in the face – or at _least_ spit in his eye, as my dear friend Clarissa would've done – but once again I know this will get me nowhere, except perhaps deeper into hell. _Get control of yourself! I don't care if he's a monster, he's a bloody Officer and you shall treat him as such! _

Screaming at oneself every now and then can most certainly help, as I quickly gained control of my temper, and even managed to grind out an answer.

"You needn't worry, Sir."

He eyes me warily for a moment. There's a strange expression on his face, as if he's trying to figure something out. He suddenly nods, speaking just a little too loudly to be believable. "Tell me, Faber," he practically announces, "can ye cook?"

Can I_ cook?_ Does he intend to make me the Galley Assistant now? Whatever he has planned, I'm sure it can't be good, considering which sea-monster we're talking about here. But I also know that I don't have much choice… so I nod and offer a brisk answer. "Aye!"

Maccus hisses under his breath, but keeps up the loud, announcer-like voice. "Good. You have galley duty today. Report below and pick up assignments from Barbecue."

_I knew it!_ Sharkhead's just trying to pass me off to someone else, for _them_ to deal with, the cheap sod. Well, I suppose anyone's authority has to be better than his, at the moment, so I'm all too willing to go along with this course of action. I pull a sharp salute.

"Aye, aye, Sir!"

I turn to go belowdecks, but before I've gone very far, I hear his voice calling out from behind me. "An' take care o' yer hands, Faber!"

I whirl around, an unchecked look of confusion smitten across my face. _What?_ "…Sir?" _Surely ol' Sharkhead can't actually care about…_

"We'd _hate_ for you to miss out on tomorrow's work because of a little infection," he growls. A gurgling laugh escapes from him, and I realize with a sinking heart that no, he doesn't care one lick about my hands. He's just taunting me, once again.

_Filthy blighter!_ On the inside, I'm scowling my face off and, quite honestly, imagining myself doing dastardly things to him. But I don't show any of it on the outside. I can't afford to. I hold my face calm and my voice steady, just as Mistress Pimm would've wanted me to - just as I would've wanted myself to do.

"Thank you, Sir." I answer. I turn back to go belowdecks. Even more laughter rings out behind me, but I don't respond to it. I will _not_ let this sea-monster win again.

…but I have said that before.

* * *

_a/n: I actually intended this chapter to go further, hence the "part 1" at the start of the chapter. but, seeing at this is already over the length of my normal chapters, and that seemed a convenient stopping point, I decided to give ya'll a reprieve from my looooooong hiatus. so, you can forgive me if this chapter seemed to lack plot. first, keep in mind the story is still technically being set up, and the main plot is yet to begin. secondly, remember that Chapter 8, part 2, will be coming as soon as I can get myself to bang it out. which, I promise you on pain of an eternal trip to the Locker, will come sooner than this one did!_

_and remember... any period songs that you'd like to have an appearance in this fic, I'd love to know about them! Jacky still has that pennywhistle, and if I know her, she's bound to use it sometime... ;)_


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